


Five Days

by ayesakara



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M, Post-Series, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 07:54:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayesakara/pseuds/ayesakara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin is away and Brian’s life has turned surreal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Three days after he left for New York, you wake up from your sleep strangely refreshed.

It’s strange because you’ve spent the last three days so busy on the new account that you haven’t really had a chance to properly miss him, even. It’s strange because you have your arms around his pillow and you have gravitated towards his side of the bed in your sleep—so you know your body misses him, but your mind has been too occupied to catch up yet. It’s strange because you’ve slept less than two hours for the past three nights and yet, for the first time since he left, you don’t feel tired.

You’re fresh, just as you’d be after ten hours of uninterrupted sleep.

You sit up on the bed and blink into the lazily drifting light coming in through the half-closed shutters of the bedroom doors, and know it will be time to get up soon—even if the alarm hasn’t gone off yet.

You roll your neck, trying to get rid of the kinks from yesterday’s late night at Kinnetik. You try to think of how wrapping up work on Redmond Automotive’s new campaign has taken longer than expected, even if you were as brilliant as always. But all you can really remember is that you barely made the deadline.

The deadline. Home by three. No kissing on the lips except the lips that belong to him.

Ironic that you should follow the rules to this day, when you yourself wanted him to go out there with no strings attached. To make a career for himself and be completely fabulous. No worries. No regrets. No ties to the past to bog him down.

He is more than capable of making up his own mind. He’s bright and smart and talented and destined to go places no one has reached before. That’s why you two are together.

Together.

A laughably insipid concept for the location-challenged. The out-of-towner’s bidding to make a long-distance relationship work. Bleh, should be your normal response. But what you have with him has never been normal, is beyond ordinary. He made you promise that you will never give up on him, that you will hold onto him. And you agreed. You two are still together, distance be damned.

Therefore, it doesn’t really matter if you haven’t actually gotten the chance to speak to him since he grabbed the red-eye three nights back. You know he’s busy settling in at the new place and you wanted to give him time on his own without hogging him like some fucking dyke with your unnecessary phone calls. He’s a big boy, he’s fine, and you will call him when he’s settled down. Besides, he’s left you five messages on your cell-phone, and three at the loft in as many days, telling you how hectic things are at the new place and how awesome New York is and how much he misses you and loves you.

He can’t help it if you’ve been so tied up in meetings with Louis Redmond that you haven’t actually been available to receive those calls. And then spending nights finishing up the same work, holed away in your office with Theodore and Cynthia. Of course he hasn’t been able to get through to you.

You don’t want to think about how you kept the cell by your side in last night’s session, because you wanted to talk to him, really needed to hear his voice. You don’t want to be reminded that despite how tired you were when you finally got home and collapsed on your bed, you couldn’t help but feel somewhat disappointed that there wasn’t a message waiting for you this time. No I-love-yous and I-miss-your-cocks to tide you over for the night. You don’t want to think about it because it’s fucking lesbianic behavior and you hate such conduct in others, so why would you ever tolerate it in yourself? You won’t and you don’t.

Still, as you kick off the duvet and slide out of bed, before making your way towards the bathroom, you take a detour to the living room and check your phone messages. And sigh. None since last night. You roll your eyes at yourself—what were you expecting, Kinney, that he’d have left you a love note between three am and seven-thirty? He was probably out at a party last night, just as he ought to. Just as you want him to.

His assurances that he won’t let you fuck it up ease you. He is who he is: the one who makes you say and do things you never say to anyone else, the one who’s more than capable of keeping this thing you have with him—a relationship, your brain reminds you, it’s called a relationship—together, for both of you.

You just hope his faith in you is as strong as yours is in him.

You splash cool water from the tap onto your face and stare at your reflection. Your narcissistic side—which frankly makes up around ninety-percent of your entire psychological makeup—is more than pleased to note that your eyes are clear, with no new lines visible to mar your perfect good looks. There’s also no sign of fatigue on your face from the last three nights’ activities. It’s strange, considering how out you were last night when you came back.

Perhaps, it’s going to be a good day, you raise your brow at the mirror.

And why wouldn’t it be?

Everything’s fine. You’re fine. He’s fine. Life’s good.

It has to be.

Three days after he left for New York, you push all negative thoughts out of your head and get ready to go out and be brilliant once again.

 

********

 

You know stopping in at the Diner was a mistake when the fourth person sits down in front of you to ask how he is doing.

“You know, Brian,” Emmett swirls his mango shake with a spoon and looks at you. “It’s all right to miss him. Sometimes life’s hard and you face temporary separations, but you must remember that no matter how hard and tedious the road may be, true love will always prevail.” He ignores your eye-roll at the syrupy sentimentality of his words and sinks his straw into his drink.

“Emmett Honeycutt,” you drawl at him with your sing-song sarcasm, “how extraordinarily profound of you.” Your smirk widens when he sticks his tongue out at you. But then you blink as he locks his gaze with you and noisily slurps the rest of his drink—humming in delight.

You wrinkle your nose at the foul display. “Deb, I asked for my breakfast an hour ago. I have to get to work sometime today.”

“Hold your fucking horses, will you? It’s coming right up.” She hollers this from the kitchen and then carries the tray to your table, setting your plate down in front of you. “What’s the big deal anyways?” She frowns at you, her hands on her hips. “You were a goddamned no-show at Sunday’s lunch. You disappear off the face of the planet for three fucking days because you’re so busy making money. And the morning you finally show up at the Diner, you act as if you’re catching the fucking 8 o’clock train. You own the damned company, what’s the fucking hurry?”

“The fucking hurry is that I have a fucking meeting to get to before I go to the office.” You stab at your omelet, find it too greasy, and push it aside, taking a sip of your coffee instead. “You slack off with your clients, and they don’t take you seriously anymore. You slack off at your own office and your employees start to think they can slack off too.” You direct the last at Theodore, who accepts it with a snort and a complacent grin.

“That’s my cue to get out of here and head to my little corner in His Majesty’s Domain.” He slips out of his booth. “Please, no late-nighters for at least a week, Bri,” are his last words to you before, with a wave, he’s gone.

“See you at Babylon tonight?” Mikey, too, is sliding out from his seat. “I haven’t seen you at all in the last three nights.”

You sneer at him. “If I can tear myself away from making my next million.”

“Oh, come on, Brian,” Mikey is adamant. “Justin asked how the new DJs were at Babylon. He says the clubs in New York are amazing.”

“You spoke to him?” The question is out before you can stop it. But you are genuinely surprised. You don’t know why but for some strange lunatic reason you actually thought that if you hadn’t spoken to him, no one else could’ve either.

“Yeah. Twice.” Michael looks at you strangely. “Why? Didn’t he call you?”

“Sure, he did.” And you’re not lying, really. He did call you. Eight times in fact. So what if it was only to leave messages on your voicemail—because you realized during the drive to the Diner that none of his missed calls on your cell-phone were made at times when he knew you would be free to take his calls; it’s almost as if those messages were all designed to be messages, not calls. You wonder why you didn’t think of that before. Whatever the fuck, you mutter silently. The phone calls happened. He picked up the phone and dialed your number. That’s technically the same thing. “He told me he hopped a dozen clubs but he couldn’t find a single guy who had a cock as perfect as mine.” You keep your voice normal as you smirk at Mikey.

However, something comes through your tone, because, suddenly Emmett is looking at you interestedly, a devious glint in his eyes.

“Oooh, yeah!” He leers at you impishly. “Our baby is making some big splashy waves at the hot, hot, hot New York clubs. Can you imagine? The beautiful, hunky, young gay crowd from the biggest metropolitan center of America?” You snort at him. Emmett has apparently decided that it’s time to switch back to the normal, teasing repartee he usually reserves for you. You breathe a sigh of relief. This, you can deal with. Syrupy romanticism never really works for you. You take a long sip from you coffee, feigning nonchalance, and then nearly choke when he says: “He told me he went out the first two nights and got hit on by two dozen hotties, each night.”

He got to speak to him, too?

Almost of their own accord, you feel your eyes narrowing dangerously as you glare at Emmett.

“Someone’s getting acquainted with the green-eyed monster.” Mikey sniggers at you.

“Fuck off.” You stand up, throwing a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “He’s gone there with my blessings, and he’d better fuck all the hottest guys in New York before I come out and snag them from him.” You grab your jacket and turn to leave. “It’s part of the deal.”

“But Brian, why all the excessive foaming at the mouth then?” Emmett chortles.

“Fuck off,” you repeat as you stalk out of the Diner, ignoring the sound of their laughter, and slam the door hard behind you.

Fucking losers.

By the time you have reached the car, opened the door, and gotten behind the wheel, however, you can’t help but recognize the humor of the situation. You did act somewhat infantile. But then, that is to be expected from the company you keep.

You press the gas pedal and the Corvette flies. Keep you mind on the day, Kinney, you tell yourself. You’re here and your lover’s in New York and that’s the way it’s going to be for a while. Keep your mind off the needless meanderings—why he called them and not you—because it doesn’t matter.

Business. Keep your focus on your work and don’t think about him. Don’t think about him.

That’s it. You’re not going to think about him for the rest of the day. That’s the only way you can work.

 

********

 

“Oh my God, Brian, that place is such a dump, but it’s a dump in New York,” Daphne squeals over the phone and you swerve the ’vette into the left lane to avoid the SUV coming in front of you—one hand on the wheel, the other holding the cell-phone to your ear. “And it’s definitely a step up from the hovel he found here back in October. Justin’s like, totally giddy,” she gushes.

Ah, Daphne. You favorite heterosexual from amongst your lover’s dubiously non-existent group of friends. She’s so chipper all the time. Usually, her enthusiasm is contagious and welcome and you enjoy stirring her shit because she loves the attention and always means well. Right now, though, you haven’t the slightest idea what she’s blabbing about. You’re a little discomfited that you had only gone an hour without thinking about him before she caught you on the cell on your way back to Kinnetik, to plunge him right back in your thoughts all over again.

She had apparently been on a little family trip and only checked herself into the Pitts last night. But she seems to know something about her best friend’s latest living arrangements.

But so the fuck should you, right?

You decide to play along with her feisty mood. “I’m sure our little Sunshine is all galvanized with excitement over his acquisitions.”

“And the window in the living room,” she continues, “which, while it looked a little tiny in size from what I could tell, actually opens out to a view of Central Park. Can you believe that?” She sounds absolutely thrilled. “He totally surprised me, though. He never told me he was going to send them when he called yesterday morning.”

Ah, so she has spoken to him as well. How wonderful. “How nice of the famous artiste to be calling his beloved friends all the way from New York.”

“Please, he’s a total freak,” she says. “He woke me up at this ungodly hour, like, six in the morning or something, while I was on vacation. That’s totally not fair.”

Then it hits you. She saw the apartment?

“Remind me again where you just came back from?” you ask her, a furrow forming between your brows. “Were you in New York?”

“No, silly,” she giggles. “I just told you, I went to Nashville to visit family.”

“So where did you see his apartment?”

“Christ, Brian, I saw them in the pictures Justin sent in the email the day after he reached New York,” she explains slowly, as if speaking to a three year old. “There were only, like, a hundred of them. Didn’t you see them?”

Email? You feel your frown turning into a scowl. There was no email. And there certainly were no pictures to be had. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” And you don’t. You have no idea what she’s talking about because you have no idea what’s going on.

“Gimme a break, Brian. You can’t tell me he didn’t send you the pictures?”

“How the hell should I know?” You hear yourself snap. “I haven’t checked my mail in the last three days because I’ve been busy on a new account at work.” The lie slips out as a defense tactic. You can’t tell her you haven’t received his email, let alone the fact that you haven’t even spoken to him on the phone. You feel your teeth grit. “I guess I missed the fucking mail call.”

“Jesus, Brian, calm down, I am sure he sent the pictures to you before he sent them to me.” No, he didn’t. “Go check your email. There’s no need to freak out.”

Who the fuck is freaking out? And who gives a shit whether he sent any stupid pictures of his little dump in New York City or not? There could be a thousand different reasons why you never got the email. Maybe he forgot. Maybe the email bounced. There was that virus thing taking rounds on the Kinnetik servers a couple weeks back. Or maybe… maybe he simply didn’t want to show you the pictures just yet. Maybe he was still deciding on the best ones to send to you because after all, you have such high aesthetic standards. Maybe he wants to settle in first, make it more presentable, make it more suitable to the Kinney mindset.

You want to believe this because you know it’s irrational to be disappointed about phone calls and an email and a bunch of photos. He’s only been gone three days, it’s not the end of the world.

But before you can help it, almost unwittingly, old ugly memories slink into your thoughts. Memories of things gone unsaid and promises broken. Of pain and hurt caused, both by design and without intention. You want to push them away, cart them out of your consciousness, throw them out with all the other garbage you got rid of with his help. But you can’t help it. They swarm around you and fill you up and you suddenly have this unpleasant, bitter taste in your mouth.

You ignore the tinny sound of Daphne’s voice coming over the line, asking you if you are all right, and disconnect the call. Then, for good measure, you turn the cell-phone off and shove it into your pocket. There, that’s better. You’re not going to deal with this bullshit right now. There’s no fucking need to get upset about issues that should not be bothering you. You’re fine. He’s fine. Everything’s fine.

 

********

 

Still bristling, and now absolutely determined to keep your mind on work with no distractions—personal or otherwise—disrupting your day, you com Cynthia to apprise you of your schedule as soon as you walk into your office.

“Leo Brown had a change of plans, he’s flown to Italy with his wife for two weeks,” she announces as she comes in.

You stare at her. “Two weeks? But I had this weekend cleared especially for those meetings he asked for.”

“Excuse me. I had this weekend especially cleared on your behalf, so that you could get out of the Aidan Miller Charity Event that you would’ve hated to attend in any case.” She smiles smugly, ignoring your glare. “Well, Brown requested we schedule them for when he’s back from his trip.”

“Tell him to take a plunge in the Seine and go fuck himself,” you grumble.

“If you insist. Don’t forget, you still have the lunch meeting with Joey Gregson.” She reminds you and then turns to leave.

“Hold on.” You stop her. “Where’s Lance?” Lance Spender is the new Assistant Art Director Kinnetik appointed last month. He’s shown some promise but you put him in charge of one of the newer accounts and he is supposed to show you his first samples today.

Cynthia turns around. “Ah, he called in to tell he’ll be coming in a bit late.”

“The fuck he did.” He isn’t that good if he doesn’t show up for work and Cynthia very well knows it. “Where the hell are the mock-ups for the Jester account I asked for?”

She sighs dramatically and points to the other side of the room “Already done. On that table. He finished them last night.”

You walk over to inspect. “And why the hell didn’t I see them last night?”

“Because you, along with the rest of us, were working on the Redmond account.” She follows you as you pick up the first illustration.

She takes notes as you go through all the mock-ups one after the other, pointing out the flaws and imperfections in each—because you’re a perfectionist, after all, and you need everything to be just right—until you can’t find anything more to complain about. And then you tell her to get out of your office and get back to work.

“Good, now you can sit back and relax,” Cynthia chuckles and turns around.

“I didn’t fucking come here to relax.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“And hold all calls,” you call out. “I have a migraine, I don’t want to talk to anyone—even if it’s the fucking President.”

By the time your office door is closed and you’re taking your jacket off, it occurs to you how fucking childish your behavior was with Daphne. No matter what your feelings, there was absolutely no reason at all for you to start acting the part of the insecure, jealous boyfriend with said boyfriend’s best friend. You’re momentarily dazed at how fast your mood had gone to shit.

So, you take a deep breath, further cooling your nerves, and then take out your cell, switch it back on and call her back. You keep the call short, just assuring her that yes, you’re fine and no, you’re not mad at her, and no, you’re certainly not mad at him, so could she please stop freaking out, and yes, it was her that freaked out and not you---no, no, no, not you at all.

She calls you a drama queen and wonders how she puts up with the theatrics you and your boyfriend make her go through before she slams down her phone and you feel relieved.

 

********

 

You realize your mistake was giving Cynthia the huge raise last month. You give her a little money and she starts to think she owns the world. You specifically told her to hold all your calls and she does this.

“Fuck, Cynthia,” you hiss into the phone. “I told you, no fucking calls.”

“But, Brian, it’s Mrs. Taylor,” she replies soothingly. “She called yesterday when you were in meetings and I would’ve put her through but she insisted not to disturb you.”

“Well, that should give you a clue.”

“Be nice, Brian,” Cynthia chides you. “You always take calls from the in-laws. It’s in the Rule Book on Appropriate Behavior for the Newly-Weds,” she chuckles.

“Fuck the Rule Book.”

“Hello, Brian.”

Damn. You recover quickly. “Mother Taylor!” You smirk into the phone. “How are you this fine summer morning?”

“I am fine, thank you.” For some bizarre reason, she sounds amused. Or perhaps, like her son, Jennifer Taylor too has somehow managed to attune herself to your many moods. “And how are you doing?”

“Still in the same fabulous shape since the last time we met.” Which was the night you picked him up from her place to take him to the airport, three days ago.

“Good to hear that,” she replies. There’s a beat and then: “Brian, I have some samples from Justin’s portfolio that he asked me to ship this week.” You like this about Jennifer. She doesn’t waste time in pointless rhetoric. “He said you will be sending some of his stuff from your storage and asked me to include the paintings in that shipment.”

You feel a sigh building in your throat and repress it. Yes, you are supposed to ship the rest of his stuff to New York, and you knew it was coming. But you can’t help but think that this is another reminder of him making a new life out of Pittsburgh, at a new place, away from you.

“Sure,” you reply, keeping your voice calm. “I’ll have someone pick it up from your place. Would this evening be okay?”

“It would be perfect,” she replies. There’s a pause and then: “I spoke to him yesterday.” Well, who in this fabulous Pittsburgh didn’t?—you feel like rolling your eyes. “He sounded so excited. Even cheerier than the day before, in fact,” she laughs.

Ah, calling Dear Mom everyday and even getting through to her. How nice. No leaving messages on her voicemail, hmm? Shut up, you scold yourself, as you clear your throat. “Is that right? Our boy’s all excited about making it big in the Big Apple, isn’t he?”

“No, that was not it.” There’s something in her voice that makes you sit up. She sounds perplexed. “The first two days I spoke to him, he was excited about New York, talking about the sights and the apartment and the work challenge. But… last night, I don’t think he was talking about New York. He seemed happy but preoccupied somehow—like he was in a hurry to get somewhere.”

“Yeah, probably in a hurry to hit the big clubs.” You raise a brow. “It’s a new job, a demanding job that he’s going to love,” you say to her. “He has a lot on his mind.”

Jennifer is quite for a moment and you wonder if she’s worried. She has been speaking to her son everyday, which is more than you could say for yourself. Besides, she said herself, he sounded excited. So what’s the concern?

“Brian,” she speaks suddenly. “Are you eating properly?” Oh no! “I called you yesterday but you were busy in meetings all day. And I know how you get when you have too much work pressure. And don’t overreact, all right? But Justin again sort of asked me to keep an eye on you.” Christ! “He gets worried about you. So you have to promise me to take care of yourself.”

“God, that’s all I need.” You sigh impatiently. “Another mother hen to worry about my eating habits.”

“I am serious,” her voice has changed. It’s no longer the businesslike tone of your boyfriend’s mom who wants you to ship her son’s portfolio to New York. It’s not even the patient tones that your realtor applies when advising you on your real-estate acquisitions. It’s the rare Mother’s voice you heard directed at yourself a few times in the last year. You hate to admit this but you don’t really mind this voice all that much. “You are so thin,” she says, “have you been going to the Diner lately? At least Debbie feeds you properly.”

“Oh please,” you snort. “More like clogs my arteries with all the grease. You want me to have a heart attack?” But there’s no heat in your words.

“Well, I know just what to do.” Her voice changes again, and you want to slap your forehead. You know what’s coming next.

“Jennifer…” You try to interrupt her.

“We could do a weekly cooking schedule for you.” Oh, Jesus. “I am sure Debbie will agree with this and it’ll be better than the Diner food.” Her voice is animated all of a sudden. It’s the same voice she used on Justin years ago when she would take him out shopping for clothes. She would be so excited about properly dressing up her eighteen year old son that the tenor of her voice would change to these wistful, exultant tones that made you laugh your ass off at Justin’s plight.

It was the same tenor that accompanied her on those weekly visits to the loft with home cooked casseroles and containers of chicken soup during the radiation months—and when Justin was away. A strange kind of warmth spreads through you.

But you have to stop her. You don’t need anyone to take care of you. You don’t.

“Jennifer…”

But she isn’t listening anymore. She has a new purpose in life. Now that her son has left for New York, she can feed the son-in-law.

“Justin tells me you’re not much for cooking yourself but you do enjoy home-cooked meals.” Oh, Justin tells her everything, does he? “You’re into no-carbs after seven, right? I can manage that. Did I tell you Molly’s new fad is vegan food?”

“God, Jennifer.”

“Hush now.” She stops you. “I promised my son I am going to keep an eye on you while he’s not here. And I will do it.”

“But, I don’t think there’s any…”

“Good Bye, Brian.”

You listen to the sound of the dial-tone in bemusement. Then you close your eyes, take a deep breath and shake your head.

Crazy. You were right. It does run in the family!

 

********

 

You return from your lunch meeting with Joey Gregson utterly bored out of your skull. You don’t know why you even went. All the old geezer wanted was to pick your brains about any new ideas you might want to throw his way, while ogling the big breasted waitresses at his favorite Steakhouse.

It’s a small company, and while, generally, Joey Gregson tends to be a penny-pinching miser, he’s grudgingly receptive to your promotional plans and ad campaigns. They’ve given him the kind of exposure he never dreamed about before. He came to you when Kinnetik was a small, upcoming firm, and you’ve always given him top notch service.

But the lunch today was not to renew the account or to discuss anything worthwhile. Ol’ Joey wants entertainment every now and then. And entertainment for a sixty-three-year-old Pipes Manufacturer from Pittsburgh has the potential to put a damper on anyone’s spirits.

You’re secretly glad for the fifteen text messages Cynthia sent you in the middle of the lunch—something about an urgent issue with Theodore. That was the only reason you’re back in the office only at three thirty pm and not still sitting comparing tit sizes with a breeder client.

“The Redmond issue resolved?” You walk into Theodore’s room, determined to wreak some havoc around the office. You should not be the only one allowed to suffer—you want to spread the misery.

He looks up from the large stack of accounting files and investment applications he’s surrounded with and nods. “Oh yeah. Here.” He plucks out an envelope from his pile, takes out a stack of sheets and plunks them down in front of you. “I was going to bring it by your office later on, but since you’re already here.” He smiles and gives you a pen.

You stare down at the agreement copies in confusion. “This is the final agreement from Redmond.”

“That’s right.”

You stare at him. “But he said this won’t be done until Friday afternoon.”

“Well, apparently, all of their internal issues are decided and they’re now ready to sign the official agreement for the full two years.” Ted looks way too self-satisfied for his own good.

“He’s not coming in tomorrow?” Christ, you can only hope. “Or Friday? Or the next week?”

“Oh.” Ted frowns and looks at his calendar. “I don’t know. Cynthia didn’t think so. He’s apparently flown back to Chicago, so we’ll be spared the privilege of his most gratifying presence in the near future.” Then he grins. “Unless of course, you want to hang out with him because you found him so witty and charming.”

“Well, if he ever decides to meet again, we always have your witty and charming presence to sic on him,” you grin at Ted, earning a self-deprecating smile from him. You sign the papers and then turn to go. “Is that the only reason Cynthia was constantly disturbing me during my meeting for?”

“I didn’t hear you complaining.” She appears by your side as you make your way back to your office, always the buoyant presence. “Here, your mail.” She hands you a stack of envelopes.

“I’ll see it tomorrow.” You throw it on your desk and reach for your jacket. “I’m leaving.”

“I thought you came here to work.”

“There’s nothing left for me to do.” You start putting your laptop back in its case. “There are no more meetings for today, or for the rest of the week and I am bored out of my skull.” You turn to leave and find Cynthia standing in front of the door, an immovable figure. She has her arms folded on her chest.

“Check your mail.” She points to the stack on the desk. “There’s a special delivery.”

“Don’t tell me Leo sent me the latest Prada Summer Collection already,” you say sarcastically.

“You’re a little bit off geographically.” She smiles. “Try L’Avalla”

You frown. “What?”

“It’s a mineral water brand. Top rated. You’ll like it.”

“A Bottled water company?” Is this a new potential? “They want us?”

Cynthia rolls her eyes. “Try again. They’ve already got an agency.” She picks up a brochure from your desk. “Here, let me read it for you: The finest brand sparkling mineral water on earth.”

“That copy’s fucked,” you tell her. “I can tell their campaign is going down the drain. You should do some research on their competitors.”

“I’ve tried their brand and it sells just fine.” She straightens her spine and looks into your eyes. “It’s rated very highly as the safer choice to drink, rather than tap water.” She pauses and you stare at her, a weird feeling beginning in the pit of your stomach. “Maybe you can do some research on them, while you’re traveling.”

“Traveling?” You raise a brow.

She smiles. “Oh, and fresh fruit is actually a better choice than canned, but don’t overdo consumption in your enthusiasm. And always remember to wash it with mineral water, not from the tap.”

The funny feeling is now expanding into the wacky. “Cynthia,” you speak slowly. “I told you not to smoke pot during work hours.”

She chuckles loudly. “Can’t help it, I broke into your little stash by your desk.”

“What the fuck are you on?” You raise your voice.

She steps forward and pulls out a small envelope from the stack on your desk and thrusts it in your hands. “Don’t leave without your special package.” And then she’s gone from your room, sliding the door closed behind her.

You repeat, “What the fuck are you….” You look down at the envelope and stop.

It’s from Liberty Air.

What the fuck?

You tear it open and take out the ticket that you knew was inside. What the fuck? You open the ticket and look at the name—Brian Kinney—and the flight date—April 13, 2005—and think, what the fuck?

You feel dazed. It’s a one-way ticket bought in your name for today, less than two fucking hours from now. Pittsburgh to New York Kennedy, 1700 hours. Then departure at 1940 hours from Kennedy to Barajas Airport Madrid. Then 1040 local time tomorrow morning, from Madrid to…

Your eyes widen. From Madrid to…

Suddenly, it all clicks into place. Tap water. Fresh fruit.

You stare at the ticket.

“That little shit!” You curse and reach for your cell-phone.

 

********

 

You press redial on your phone and put it to your ear again. Your eyes scan the crowd swarming around you, men and women hurrying from one place to another, a child squealing in delight, a woman weeping on the shoulder of a short, dark-haired man as he stands with a luggage cart next to him, ready to depart, and you hear the ring of the phone going on and on and on, unanswered—and feel the beginnings of yet another headache throb at your temples.

What the fuck am I doing?—you ask yourself, as your eyes go to the watch again. It’s six fifty one pm. Where the fuck is he?

Suddenly, you catch a glimpse of a man walking by, the shine of his blond hair grabbing your attention, and your head snaps up as you look at him. Shit. Not him. Not him. Where the fuck is he? He should be here. He has to be here. Why else did he put you on the New York connection? Why?

Jesus. What makes you think it was him at all? But who else could it be? You know it’s him. Where is he? He should be here, because you’re here. In New York fucking City. He called you and you came. You got this cryptic message from him and you grabbed the only thing you had in your hands at the time—your laptop case, how wonderful—and hurried to the airport. With no clothes, no luggage, nothing. Just your wallet and your credit cards and your car keys in your pocket.

And he isn’t here. He isn’t here. You have no idea what kind of a game he’s playing. There is still no answer on his cell-phone. The response you got from his agency when you called them from home was even more perplexing. You don’t know what to think of it. Why would he do something like that? After being so excited about immediately joining the new place, why would he all of a sudden…

Your thoughts are interrupted by the announcement that the Delta Air flight from New York City to Madrid, Spain is about to be boarded and that all passengers are requested to proceed to the boarding lounge in terminal three, and you look down at your watch—seven five pm—and the cell-phone—redundant now—and think, no fucking way. There’s no way in hell you’re doing this. This is crazy. He’s nuts. He’s out of his freaking mind.

But, then, apparently, so are you.

Because despite the fact that you’re still in the Armani you wore to the office this morning, and you feel gritty and tired and pissed off, and damn it, you were not prepared for this—you still find yourself walking towards the boarding lounge along with everyone else. He’s not here and you’re walking, entering, sitting, sighing—the cell-phone still glued to your ear, his number ringing, ringing, ringing without an answer.

With a snap, you cancel the call, switch the phone off and shove it in your pocket.

You’re tired and fucked and totally out of your mind to be doing this.

But he will be there. You know it. He has to be.

And if he isn’t, you’ll kill him.

 

********

 

Your seat is next to a large fifty-ish Spanish woman, who speaks English only haltingly, but still manages to flirt with you shamelessly—attempting to regale you with tales from her native Barcelona.

All this in the first fifteen minutes of your claiming your seat and the plane taking off.

You wonder what the fuck she’s doing in the Business Class section with her horde of loud kids surrounding you from all sides, and then you wonder how was he able to afford the Business Class seat for you. But then she’s flirting with you again and you’re telling her that Barcelona is not where you’re headed—at which she looks offended, and starts arguing the pros of Barcelona and the cons of Balearic Islands.

She finally shuts up when the plane hits some turbulence and you take out your laptop and start tinkering with the Jester presentation you’d prepared last week—if for nothing else but to give her the message that you are not in the mood to chat anymore.

The turbulence gets cleared and the Spanish woman diverts her attention to her family in the seat behind you and although you’re thankful for small favors, the constant yapping in a foreign language all around you drills in your ears and you call the flight steward—who turns out to be a tall, doe-eyed Hispanic in his mid-20s, who gives you the eye—for a pain pill and a shot of Beam. You check him out properly when he returns with your drink and see an answering smile at the corner of his lips. Hmm. Well. At least the in-flight entertainment system seems worth exploring.

Right now, though, you need to kill this headache before you end up killing your neighbor.

No one would hold you responsible, though, even if you do end up killing someone. You can easily claim temporary insanity. No sensible person could possibly deem you sane at this point in time anyways—because it’s eight fifteen pm Pittsburgh time on a Wednesday night and you’re on a flight bound to Madrid, Spain, with no luggage, no clothes and not a single fucking clue.

Except for a cell-phone number that won’t answer and the slowly building panic in your heart that if this doesn’t turn out the way you hope it will, you’ll have no choice but to get yourself checked into the nearest loony bin—because you’d have made a fucking fool of yourself for no good reason at all.

No good reason, you snort at yourself.

He’s the biggest reason for all the changes you have gone through in your life in the last four years—willingly and otherwise.

He’s all the reason you have.

And he fucking knows it.

 

********

 

Four days after he left for New York, you wake up from your sleep on a Delta Air flight that’s about to land at Madrid.

For a moment, you’re disoriented, confused by your surroundings—your head is buzzing, your ears are ringing—and then one of the brats on the seat behind you starts bawling and the Spanish woman starts talking a mile a minute and it all comes crashing back to you. You blink the sleep out of your eyes and the fog out of your brain and look at your watch—still on Pittsburgh time—it says two thirty five am, but you know Madrid is six hours ahead.

The doe-eyed Hispanic inquires about breakfast—you weren’t really in the mood to fuck him, after all—and you ask for just coffee. It’s too early to eat anything and you hate airplane food anyway.

The seatbelt signs come on at the same moment as the captain’s announcement that they’re approaching destination. As you pack your laptop in its case and get ready for the final leg of your journey, you hope to fucking hell he knows what he’s doing.

 

********


	2. Chapter 2

It’s nearly 1 o’clock by the time you come out of the airport at Ibiza. The flight from Madrid was almost an hour late and for the first time since you left Pittsburgh last evening you’re genuinely glad you didn’t have any luggage. It only took ten minutes for you to clear customs and ten more minutes to visit the local bureaux de change to get some cash in local currency and now you’re standing outside the glass doors, in front of the parking lot, squinting into the sunny, clear day.

The air is crisp and windy, the sun hot on your back, and you’re just beginning to wonder where you should be headed next when you’re startled to hear your name called.

“Mr. Kinney.”

You look at the man approaching you. He has a stocky built with medium height and light brown hair, and he’s holding a card with your name printed on it. “Mr. Brian Kinney?” He asks again as he reaches the steps, his eyes eager on your face.

You nod. “That would be me.”

“Ah, Gracias!” A smile breaks on his tanned face. “I was told I could not miss a face like yours in a crowd of millions, but I did not realize how true that would be.” He looks at you appreciatively as he offers his hand to shake. “I am Alejandro Rodas. I am to be your guide for the day.”

“My guide?” You look him over from head to toe, as you shake his hand—oh yes, definitely gay, but not your type—and lift your brow in enquiry. “And who sent you?”.

He grins. “Now, Mr. Kinney, you know better than to ask a question like that.” There isn’t a hint of any discernible accent in his speech. You figure he must spend a lot of time guiding visitors from the US. He looks at the laptop in your hand. “Is that your luggage? All of it?”

“Yes.” You look at him.

“Well, then, you must come with me. Your car is waiting for you right here.” He tries to take the case from your hands but your grip is firm, your fingers tight around the handle.

He stops and stares at you—your eyes intent on his face, as you stand unmoving on top of the stairs—and then he smiles. “Please, Mr. Kinney. You are here, so I judge that you trusted the instincts that brought you here. Trust them a little more.” He gestures with a hand. “Your car is waiting for you. You are tired from your flight. I am sure you want to rest. Please, come with me. Your… friend has your trip planned out to the last detail—with a special focus on your comfort.”

You feel your tongue poke the inside of your cheek. Your friend, huh? Planning out a trip for you, and that too till the last detail? Hmm. This ought to be interesting.

You finally relent with a nod and let Alejandro lead you to the silver grey Honda Civic Coupe, parked in a shaded section of the parking lot, the laptop still in your hand. He opens the backdoor for you and you settle inside the cool, plush interior, as he takes the driver’s seat and turns the key in the ignition.

You stretch your legs, sighing in relief, as the car moves out of the airport and onto the long stretch of road that will take you to your destination. You’re going to Ibiza Town, to your hotel, Alejandro informs you, and the ride will take somewhere around forty-five minutes, depending upon the traffic. It is moderate this time of the year, he tells you, as you stare out the window—not quite tourist season yet.

Tall palm trees fringe the sides of the road, their drooping fronds throwing their shadows on the car as it passes underneath them, and from between them come the dazzling rays of the bright Mediterranean sun, blinding you, spreading its warmth all around.

The scenery becomes a blur and Alejandro’s voice is a dull drone at the back of your mind, as you lean back on your seat and—for the first time since yesterday—truly feel yourself relax.

It’s been a long day, and you should be exhausted and worn out with fatigue from your long mind-numbing trip, but you feel strangely animated. He called you and you’re here, and despite your general nonchalant disposition, you seriously can’t wait to see how this pans out—where this long, winding road, lined by the palm trees on both sides, will finally lead you.

 

********

 

It’s two fifteen pm by the time Alejandro leaves you in your hotel room with a stack of brochures and maps on the side table, which he says have specifically been left for you by your ‘friend’, and a promise that he’ll check on you again at four thirty pm.

You shrug out of your jacket and tie and shirt and your first instinct is to fall into the large lush, king-sized bed—thank you, four-star hotels—and fall asleep. But you see the sun coming in through the partially opened blinds and instead walk to the window to close them, when you notice the sea. The hotel is located right on the Figueretas beach. You smile. No big surprise there. It’s the gay mecca of the Ibiza Island, with close proximity to all the biggest gay bars, clubs and discotheques in the city. Someone had obviously been busy googling gay tourist destinations.

Although you caught the glimpse of the ocean on your way through the streets, watching it directly beneath the eighth floor window of your hotel room is quite another experience. The water is sparkling blue and clear and seems to spread endlessly in all directions. The white sand on the small private crescent-shaped beach is beautiful, with the occasional hotel guests scattered here and there under colorful beach umbrellas. Alejandro was right—it’s not as crowded this time of the year as you’d dreaded.

You take a deep breath of the crisp, salty sea breeze, and feel your tiredness surprisingly ebb away. Not having eaten anything since last night, however, you are famished, and could do with something nice and filling.

But first you need to get clean. You stink.

You look around the room. Neat, clean, crisp lines used in the décor. Subtle blue shades—understated and comfortable and luxurious looking. Nice large bathroom with a sunken bath and a large shower to accompany it. Hmm. Nice. You could enjoy this later on. But Alejandro said something about a Jacuzzi and spa facilities a floor below and you would like to check them out.

You turn around and start taking off the rest of your clothes, and as you’re piling them on the bed, you suddenly realize you have nothing to wear. For a split moment, you are frozen in mid-movement, utterly dumbfounded with shock. What the fuck are you doing? You’ve come here with no luggage, no clothes and you didn’t even stop on your way to the hotel to buy a fucking thing. The least you could’ve done was buy some clothes, you huff, as you kick off the pants and turn around to face the closet area. Your teeth on edge, you step forward to the closet and yank the doors open.

And freeze.

The closet is filled with clothes. Shirts and pants and jackets. For just a nanosecond, you wonder if the last occupants left their stuff behind. But then you notice the white striped shirt and go, what the fuck? You pull it out and stare at it in amazement. It’s Armani, in your size, and looks very much like the shirt you have at home. And then you notice—whatthefuck—the slate gray Prada jacket—which looks far too familiar to be a coincidence—and stare at the white silk Armani dress shirt, the black wifebeater, and—fuckingfuck—the brown half-sleeved pinstripes—all very much like the ones you have at home, and you know you’ve been robbed.

By your lover.

Christ, he must’ve taken them all with him when he left three—no, make that four—days ago. Fucker had been planning this for a while, hadn’t he? And you didn’t even notice any of it missing.

You feel the corners of your lips twitching at the comedy of the situation as you dig out your cell-phone and stare at the screen. No missed calls. Nothing. You shake your head. Well, all right then. You can take it easy, if that’s what he wants.

You reach out to take the long white bathrobe hanging on one side of the closet and put it on, and then you walk out of your hotel room to explore the spa facilities.

 

********

 

It’s four forty six pm, as you step off of the elevator, walk out the hotel lobby and into the street. Alejandro had asked if you wanted to be taken around the city in the car but you had declined. The Town Centre is only a few minutes walk from the hotel and you want to explore it on foot.

After the exquisitely long and relaxing Jacuzzi bath in the steam room, and the hearty lunch you ordered through room service, you were out like a light and didn’t wake up until twenty minutes ago. Whatever exhaustion you had left over from your flight is gone now and you’re ready to do some serious exploring. Well, as much exploring as you can do on your own with a map full of circled destinations marked specifically for your reference.

Los Molinos. Don Quijote. Black Rose Strip Club. Café Hoak’s. Principe. Monroe’s.

Your eyes once again go to the only entry with the time marked around it. Passion’s eye. A small bar outside the Ibiza Playa hotel. 8:00 pm.

Oh, yeah. That certainly looks like a well-mapped out trip to you—all planned out to the last fucking detail. But you’re determined to make your own way. You picked up a few additional brochures from the hotel information desk and there’s a lot there that wasn’t on this list. Just to be contrary, you have to make sure to hit a few spots that aren’t there. There’s over three hours for you to while away after all.

You haven’t taken many vacations in your life but this was a city you had wanted to explore for a long, long time.

Ibiza. The paradise on earth of every fag’s dreams.

The one place on earth you actually made bets to bring him to. Back in the days when you thought you could influence his career choices, for his own good. You’d been amused because he’d lost the bet that you’d thought you had won, but as it turned out you hadn’t actually won anything after all.

You were dying. You were scared and alone and confused and you thought it was all over.

At which point, this wonderful, perfect paradise became the one place on earth you decided to come to end it all at.

But he stopped you at every point, at every corner. Every turn you made, every window you looked out of, there was a part of him entrenched in your being, in your senses, in such a way that you couldn’t even take a breath without feeling a piece of him inside you. You couldn’t part from him, you couldn’t walk away from him. You tried and you failed. He was everywhere.

Everywhere.

And here you are now—alive and well and whole again. Well, as whole as one can be with a fake ball. But the day is bright and the sun is shining and you can’t get enough of the narrowly winding, beautiful cobblestone streets, as you walk the path he has apparently set you on. He’s out there somewhere, waiting for you, talking to you in his own mystifying way. And people think he’s easy and you’re the mysterious one. You snort. He’s the most difficult, the most fascinatingly stubborn man you’ve ever encountered in your whole life.

You realize you have been walking around for sometime when you find yourself standing on the corner of Ramon y Tur and Rambau. You look around the street: Spanish signboards, Spanish voices, and beautiful old age aesthetics in the architecture all around you. On your left, there is a cozy lime-colored structure with stuccowork that has been transformed into a small bistro, the strong aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting from its interior. A few feet from it is a tiny bar with real wooden swinging doors and the sign Casa De la Ginebra hanging on the front. At a distance, you see a street musician playing a melancholy tune on his guitar for a constantly moving audience of foreigners and locals alike.

You’re torn between entering the bistro for coffee and the bar for a shot of gin, when you notice an English sign on a glass door at a short distance: Arizona Leather Shop. A smile breaks on your face. Well, that sounds interesting. You secure your map and brochures in their envelope, and shove your hands in your pockets, as you jog down the street towards your first stop.

 

********

 

You hand your packages to the girl at the front desk, as she reassures you that your belongings will indeed be safe while you tour the Galería. You don’t even know why you chose to come to a museum at all. All you know is that you had lost track of how long you had been walking, and how many shops on how many different streets you had scoured—and actually found stuff to buy—when you came across this big, old, walled fortress, built on a rocky, sandy headland—a web of scraggy dirt paths leading to its side gates.

The D’alt Villa.

If you hadn’t read about this popular gay cruising ground in the brochures, you would’ve probably turned around and walked back to the hotel. But curiosity got the better of you and you decided to explore.

Well, it was a gay mecca, all right. Hundreds of men walking around, holding hands; half naked guys making out in the streets, along the dirt tracks, and on the rocky beaches. This place couldn’t be more gay-friendly even if it tried. You got cruised by beautiful golden-skinned men on every street corner and felt a familiar thrill spread through you. You don’t need to be King Stud of Liberty Avenue to be appreciated anywhere else. Here, in this place, where no one knows you, you are beautiful and young and desired.

That was when you saw the sign, Galería Van der Voort, and without even thinking, walked right inside.

It is a small quaint gallery filled with beautiful contemporary pieces by artists you don’t really recognize, though there are some familiar names you see on some illustrations. Having an artist for a lover has the advantage of educating one in contemporary art history by proxy. All those books on Modern and Contemporary Art he tended to leave scattered around the loft—you have leafed through them on more than one occasion.

Besides, you took Art History as a minor during your sophomore year. You have always had an eye for good art—and he knows it—not to mention, it’s an almost requirement in your chosen field. It’s not merely a coincidence that the two of you see eye to eye on so many things.

The offerings at this exhibit seem to be a mix of modern and abstract pieces, with no apparent discernable theme to them. Many of them seemingly have been done by local, young artists, for there is a large crowd of young art-types hovering around the gallery—discussing the merits and cons of the presentations.

You are studying a beautiful watercolor illustration of an Ibiza sunset, appreciating the vivid burning shades of red and yellow and gold that the artist has spattered across the canvas, when you catch a glimpse of blond hair on a slight lean frame in the periphery of your vision. For a split second, you think it’s another instance of wishing-he-was-here that you had at the airport, when you turn your head around and look at the man’s profile, and freeze.

It’s him.

He’s wearing the white shirt and black trousers you bought for him last month. His face is animated as he speaks to a tall, lean, dark-haired man who leans an arm across his shoulder and laughs. And you feel a sudden unexpected thrust of burning hot jealousy strike you in your guts. Who the fuck is this guy? And who the fuck does he think he is to be touching him? It only lasts a moment, enough to rattle you, and then is gone—because, suddenly, he’s turning around and moving towards the exit.

“Justin!” You move as well, calling out to him, pushing through the crowd to make your way towards him.

But in the din of the horde, he doesn’t hear you.

“JUSTIN!” you call out louder this time but he’s already out of the room, and you’re moving through the crowd faster now, almost running, and then you’re out of the room and he isn’t anywhere. Fuck. He isn’t anywhere.

You rush out of the gallery exit and look for him on the street but he’s nowhere to be seen in the crowd. You hurry to the adjacent street, thinking perhaps he turned left to make his way towards the fort gates, but he’s not there. He’s not there.

 

Fuck.

You return to the gallery and get your packages from the front desk storage, and there you see the man who had been talking to him. Now that you can see him clearly, you realize he’s one of the gallery managements. Keeping the gallery visitors happy is obviously part of his job, you snort. You can’t believe how quickly you had jumped to the worst conclusion—even if it was just for a split second—simply because you’d seen another man touch your lover—in a completely non-threatening way no less.

You look at your watch. You would honestly feel embarrassed if you weren’t in such a hurry to get out of here.

It’s seven thirty pm. It’s time to head back to the hotel and change.

 

********

 

Passion’s eye.

Like any other gay bar you’ve been to, it’s filled with cruisers and the cruised. The players and the played. You don’t see a lot of trolls here, but then Ibiza is famous for its beautiful men. Thumping music blares out of the loud speakers, as you lean back against the bar and watch the crowd.

There’s a pool table on top of which instead of pool, a whole other game is being played, between a tall Hispanic, a tightly muscled Nordic—who’s a bottom, you decide—and a medium height Asian. The name of the game is full-blown Foreplay. It involves tongue and teeth and three pairs of groping hands. One pair pushes, the other pulls and the third grabs, and you watch, amused, as the clothes slowly get shed and the crowd hoots the three as more and more skin is revealed. There doesn’t seem to be any apparent censure against nudity in this part of the Island. Very interesting.

Gay Paradise, indeed.

The booze isn’t all that bad either, you realize, as you down the second shot of Tequila and order a third. You suppose there was a reason he chose this place.

But where the fuck is he? It’s eight seventeen pm. He’s already late.

A tall brown-haired man slides up next to you at the bar and eyes you interestingly. You look him up curiously, he’s all right, and return to your drink.

He watches you a moment and then asks with a thick accent. “You an American?” Hmm. British, perhaps.

You smack your lips together to suck on the salt left from the drink and then shrug at him. “What do you think?”

“I think you are the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my whole life,” he smiles.

You smile at him virtuously. “Now, that’s a first.”

He doesn’t get the sarcasm and puts his hand on your shoulder, suddenly eager for action. “How about you and I dance to this beautiful music?”

Oh, that’s nice. But unfortunately, he’s not the one you want to dance with.

“Fuck off,” you tell him as you shove his hand off and turn away from the bar.

“Fucking Americans.” You hear him mutter but you’re no longer paying attention. You’re looking at your watch—which is slowly ticking away—searching the crowd—still showing no sign of him, where the fuck is he?—and then, you’re looking out the windows, where the slowly fading sunlight is playing multihued tricks with the glinted cut glass.

The sun is about to set. You think of the painting you were looking at in the gallery right before you caught a glimpse of him, and realize you want to see it for yourself. You want to see a real Ibiza sunset.

Making your way through the crowd, you step out of the bar and walk across the patio to the section where there are railings fixed on the deck, looking over the sandy beach below. There are a few men scattered under a few canopied sections of the beach, but your eyes are on the sea and on the sun slowly dipping down to touch the horizon. You find the stairs and climb down to the beach, walking across the cool sand and into the water—your gaze lifted up to the sky.

It’s an amazing sight.

The sun is sinking into the sea right before your eyes, but the whole world seems alight with a smoldering blend of pink and orange. You look up at the sky as the curtain of light slowly mingles into the fading blue and then begins to merge into a canopy of approaching darkness. It’s as if someone has splashed a pot of black paint on a canvas of burning bright orange. That’s how the sky looks, splattered with darkness and shadowy hues and yet unable to push away the flamboyant pink and orange tints from the slowly sinking sun.

You hear the call of the seagulls as they rise from the sea, and you stare at the sky, and at the sun—dying before your very eyes, and yet, leaving behind this colossal, endless swirl of color spinning across the heavens.

Death and shades of burning life—all in the same instance.

You’re mesmerized.

This was the place you’d wanted to come to die at. This place that is so full of life and so teeming with splendid, beautiful nature.

And he brought you here. He brought you here.

You smell the spicy, sharp scent of his Dolce and Gabbana before his shoulder brushes yours. And suddenly, you feel lightheaded—your eyes are on the sky, your throat tight as you try to swallow a lump that was not there a moment ago. You feel the cool breeze lift your hair as the world falls away from you, leaving only his scent, his heat, his presence next to you. You close your eyes for a moment, reveling in the absolute stillness of this perfect moment, breathing in the salt from the air, and then open them once more, exhaling.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” His voice is soft, as if he too is afraid to break the quiet.

You find yourself smiling at the setting sun. “Yeah.” You look at him, taking in his white beach shirt flapping in the breeze and the silk trousers accentuating lean hips. “Beautiful.”

Yes, he is. More beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen. He’s here and he’s real and you’re not a fool. No, never a fool. You lift your hand and touch the side of his face and watch as his eyes glint in the fading light. The retreating sunlight seems to gather into his hair, turning them even more golden. And then he’s winding his hand around your neck, as you take him in your arms and look deep into his eyes—pressing your forehead against his and your lips against his mouth, just breathing him in.

“Brian,” he murmurs against your lips, his eyes wide with something akin to surprise, as he looks at you. “What?” He holds your face in his palms and stares into your eyes. You have no idea what he sees on your face—amazement? Wonder, perhaps? “My God”? he gasps. “Did you… Brian, did you actually think I wouldn’t come?”

And suddenly you’re laughing at his awe, at his naiveté, as you wind your arms around his body, bring him closer to you and kiss him hard. Silly boy, you sigh against his lips, of course you knew he’d come. He called you, didn’t he? Just like he knew you’d come. After all you’ve been through with him, could it ever be possible that he’d call you and you wouldn’t show up? That he’d call you and then abandon you?

The water laps at your feet as you stand on the beach, holding him tight in your arms, your lips moving against his, your tongue exploring his mouth. You hear him moan, feel the sudden hitch to his breath that makes your dick hard. And then you have to grip his hips and realign them to your own, rubbing your groin against his as he clasps your neck and kisses you back, harder, his teeth nipping at your lips, his sighs filling your throat.

And all at once you have to have him. Right here, right now. You walk him backwards until you notice a beach blanket underneath your feet and an awning above your head and then you’re lowering him to the sand and the water, moving to cover his body. His hands pull at your clothes, his eyes glittering at you and his lips parting, as you peel off his shirt and pants and mould against him. He brings your head down to kiss you again, his lips moving against your mouth, your face, your neck.

You smooth your hands against his sides, feel his fingers run through your hair, and sigh. “Justin…”

His hands glide down your back and he rubs himself against you urgently, his cock jutting against your belly—hot and wet on your skin. You slide down his body, your tongue laving a path down his neck and chest and stomach and you feel the rumble of his groan against your mouth.

“Brian…” His fingers wrap around your hair, as he guides your head down to his cock –obviously eager for attention. You humor him for a second, flicking your tongue to taste the precum leaking from the slit and dropping a sucking kiss over the head, before sliding up to his chest again where you nip his nipples one by one—soothing the bites with cool swipes of your tongue.

“Brian,” he chokes, as you drop nipping kisses over his stomach and dip your tongue into his navel, making him thrust against your chest. “Please…”

For a moment you think he wants you to go down on him again, but then there’s a condom in his hand, and a tube of lube that he drops on the blanket next to his feet. You look into his eyes twinkling in the dark, his tongue peeking out to touch his lips. You grip his hands, feel his pulse flickering beneath your thumb, and move up to kiss him once more. His fingers soothe your back, as you find the lube and slowly prepare him, all the time keeping your eyes on his face.

Oh, but he’s exquisite this way, you think, as he tears open the wrapper and slides the condom on you. Fucking exquisite, you sigh. And then you’re lifting his legs onto your shoulders and in one sure stroke, sinking inside him, into his heat—your lips closing over his, swallowing his groans into your own mouth.

He grunts as he grips your ass with his palms and lunges against you, pulling in your cock even further and you’re helpless with your groans and your cries, as you drive into him harder, faster, deeper.

“Justin…” You lean down to claim his mouth once more—his tongue pushing inside to taste himself, his teeth raking against your upper lip, his nails scouring your back. You pant against his mouth and bring one hand down to grip his cock, the other moving up to flick his nipples. You watch his breathing quicken and his body tense and then suddenly, he arches against you as he comes—sobbing and moaning and shuddering in your arms.

You last merely a few more seconds, as his internal muscles clamp down on your own cock, and then you too are coming, gripping him hard, shaking against his body. With a moan, you collapse on top of him and feel his arms close around you. You sink your face into his neck and breathe in his sweat and skin and feel his fingers rubbing circles below your neck.

“Justin,” you sigh against his face and smile as you feel his lips moving against your forehead.

“Brian,” he murmurs and holds you tight.

And you know everything is right with the universe.

 

********

 

“We needed to get away, Brian.” His tone is completely serious as he leans back against your chest and takes a sip from his drink. The two of you came back to the hotel room to clean up and are now sitting on the floor of the small terrace, enjoying the view of the beach below.

You nuzzle his ear as you pick up a piece of peach and feed it to him. “You could’ve just told me.”

“Yeah, I know, but… I wanted it like this. The agency didn’t have a problem if I started a little late, so I told them three weeks.” He sighs. “I wanted to do it like this, Brian. We’ve never gone on a vacation together.” There’s wistfulness in his voice that makes your throat tighten, and he senses your tenseness—incorrectly, however. “No, don’t say it. I know you’ve wanted to take me on a number of occasions—but it’s never happened. Something always seemed to happen to throw our plans off. Something always… fucked things up.”

Yeah, like me?—you want to ask him. You know the moments he is talking about without taking a single name. It’s the White Party, and the Vermont trip, and the cancelled LA visit—all the things that thwarted your plans, fucked with what you had, or could’ve had with him. It’s about Chicago and violin music and Ibiza and Johns Hopkins. It’s about sickness and fears, about truth and lies and separations that have taken both of you away from each other—time and again.

“It was never intentional, Justin,” you tell him, always the realist. “Things happen. Sometimes you just can’t control them.”

“And sometimes you just do.” He kisses your neck. “Like this trip. This was totally intentional.”

You smile. “Yeah. You decided to send me on a wild goose chase halfway around the world.”

“Please,” he snorts. “It was hardly a wild goose chase. Your had a plane ticket, you knew exactly where you were going.”

You look at him a moment and then grip his chin and turn his face towards you to kiss him thoroughly. When you part, his face is flushed and he’s panting. You stare into his eyes. “Yes, I did.”

He smiles a full Sunshine smile and meets your lips again.

 

********

 

“So, who else knew?” you ask him over the loud Electronica thumping out of the loud speakers, as you lead him through the crowd and further inside the club. “Did Daphne know? Did your mom?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Absolutely not. I didn’t tell anyone. At all.” He looks over at you. “Well, Cynthia was the one who I was coordinating with so she had to know.”

“Coordinating, my foot.” You grunt. “More like conspiring behind my back.”

“What?” He mock-frowns. “I am sorry, I must’ve missed the complaint you registered with the authorities.”

“Brat,” you chide him as you enter what seems to be La Muralla’s backroom—naked men lean against various surfaces, doing what comes naturally to them: fucking. “You should’ve been on my flight. I had a horde of Spanish brats bawling in my ear the whole time. Gave me a fucking headache.”

“Aw. Poor baby.” He chuckles at you unsympathetically. “Here. Let me fix that.” He pushes you against the wall and you feel his hands slip inside your shirt as he leans over to breathe into your left ear. “Tell me which one it was.” He licks the outer shell, making you sigh, and murmurs. “Was it this one?”

You feel his teeth nipping at your lobe and inhale sharply. “Mmm. Yeah, I think.” His tongue flicks once more as you close your eyes to the sights around you and focus on the feel of his fingers on your stomach, sliding up to twist around your nipples, as his teeth tug at your ear.

“Ahhh,” you groan. “No, wait.” You stop him. “I think it was the other one.” You feel his smile against your skin as he moves to your right ear and laves the skin right behind it. “Mmm. Yeah. Do that again.”

“This?” He asks as his teeth play with your earlobe for another few seconds, making you moan, before moving to your neck—where he laps at the dip of your throat and kisses your pulse, his arms wrapping around you.

“You were totally playing me though, weren’t you?” you ask him after a while, your fingers sliding into his soft hair.

“Hmm?” He looks up at you. “You mean with the non-calls and the voicemails?” He smiles. “Of course I was.”

“Asshole!” You swat his thigh.

He grins. “Hey, you totally love my ass.”

You snort. “Yep, it certainly is the finest in all of fabulous Pittsburgh.”

“Excuse me.” He raises a brow. “But this isn’t Pittsburgh.”

“Oh no. You’re right. It’s Ibiza.” You rub your nose against his and smile. “I guess now we can say that your ass is the finest in not only Pittsburgh, but in all of the western hemisphere.”

“You got that right.” He grins and kisses you again.

“So…” You look down into his eyes, as this time your tone turns serious. “Am I to assume that the one-way ticket was only a symbolic way of showing that a one-way trip to Ibiza doesn’t just have to mean…” You pause for a split second as he goes still in your arms—his eyes glittering in the neon blue lights. “…the end of one’s life? But that…”

“But that,” he interrupts you, “it can also be a symbol of new beginnings.” His throat convulses as his grip around you tightens. “That it can mean health and love and happiness too.” He stares into your eyes. “That it can be a way of putting your faith in someone else’s hands, and of letting go for just a while—not knowing when that moment will end but trusting that someone just the same.”

You look at him for a long moment, hearing him breathe, feeling his heart thumping against your chest. You run your hand up his back, soothing his tense muscles and venture: “Hey, I did manage to figure that out, you know.”

He stares at your face and then breaks into a smile. “Good. Don’t you know I came after you because you’re so fucking smart?” His eyes twinkle. “Stay that way.”

“This way?” You arch your brow, pointing to your cock tenting inside your pants and his hands digging inside your clothes.

“Oh yeah,” he chuckles, as he unbuttons your pants and slips your cock out. “This way too.”

Your groan is your only answer as he slides down to his knees and swallows you whole.

 

********

 

Later that night, you’re not surprised when he takes out the box of rings from his luggage and climbs back into the bed next to you. He had been planning this trip before he ever went to New York so it’s no shock that he snagged these before leaving. You believe him, though, when he says he took the rings with him right at the last moment.

“I didn’t plan this part, Brian.” He scrunches his nose. “Honest, I didn’t. It just sort of happened. A minute before I was about to leave, I went into the bedroom and took them out of the drawer where I knew you’d kept them.”

You feel your lips twitch. “If you say so.”

“Its just that… we’d already decided that we weren’t going to wear them because we don’t need the convention, and then… it was time to go and I realized…” He stops.

“You realized…” you prompt him.

He gulps. “I realized that… to hell with convention, I wanted to wear it.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, that’s what I bought them for.” You poke him in the side. “Wear it.”

“But.” He frowns. “But… I sort of want you to wear it too.” You repress your smile at his sigh. “No. No, wait. I know, you don’t have to. And neither do I. Cause we’re defying convention. I know.”

You press your lips together. “That’s what you said.”

“Fuck, Brian.” He sits up and stares at you. “I thought you agreed.”

You sigh. “I do agree.” You stare into his eyes, as you touch his face. “I said, fuck convention. We don’t need marriage and we don’t need rings to know that… we love each other.”

He smirks. “Ha. You totally stammered when you said love.”

You lift a brow. “No, I didn’t.”

“You did too.” He grins.

“Fuck you.”

“You already did.” He leans over to kiss your neck. “It’s my turn next.”

“The fuck it is.” You smirk.

“It totally is my turn,” he huffs. “Especially since we have such an equal relationship.”

“Sunshine, you have such a misguided opinion about equality.” You roll him over on his back and kiss him for a few moments and he lets you. But then he pushes you off him, and sits up again.

“Brian, don’t try to throw me off-track.”

“And what track is that?”

“The ring.” He points to the glinting gold bands.

“The ring.” You nod. “You want to wear it. So, wear it.”

He looks at you earnestly. “But if I’m wearing it, then you have to wear it too, otherwise it’s all wrong.”

You sigh. “Then I’ll wear it too.” All he had to do was ask. Shit, doesn’t he know you’ll do anything for him? “There. Hand me that.” You take out one band from the box and slip it on. It’s a perfect fit. “See?” You show him your hand and he smiles. “Now you wear yours.”

He follows suit and examines his hand. “Yours look better.”

You snort. “You’re so mature.”

“No, really.” He insists. “Your fingers are beautiful.” He grips your hand and brings it to his lips. “I love your hands.” He kisses your knuckles. “So much.”

You feel your face turning warm as you mock-frown at him. “Jesus, don’t tell me you’re getting melodramatic now that you’ve reached adulthood.”

He smiles at you brightly. “Fuck you.”

”There you go again about your misguided notions.” You shove at him and he shoves you back, trying to roll you on your stomach. You both laugh and chuckle and play around like this for a few minutes, tickling each other, each trying to overpower the other. And then the expression on his face changes.

“God,” he presses his lips together and sighs in misery. “I am such a ditz, Brian.”

You heave a loud sigh. “And how may I ask did you come to that conclusion?”

He sits up and stares at the ring on his finger—his throat convulsing. “You gave me this beautiful, gorgeous ring. And I returned it to you.” He looks up at you, his face almost tragic. “I fucking returned it to you.” He smacks a kiss on your lips and murmurs. “Such a ditz.”

You feel your eyes widen. “Justin. Hey. Are you having second thoughts?” you ask him. “Are you regretting what we decided?” You grip his shoulders and shake him. “Because if you are…” you will do it for him, you think. If he thinks he still needs a conventional gesture, to prove your love for him, you will do it. You will do anything he asked.

“No.” His face twists. “Shit. No, Brian. No regrets.” He stares into your eyes. “And I know. I know.” He bites his lip and then smiles at you, his eyes clear. “I know you.” He leans in to kiss you reassuringly. “We don’t need marriage to know we belong together.” He wraps his arms around you and whispers. “God, I love you so much. I love you more than you’d ever know.”

You ruffle his hair. “Don’t be silly. I know it. I know it all.”

“No, you don’t really.” He shakes his head.

You grip his shoulder and make him look into your eyes. “Yes, I do.”

He searches your eyes. “How can you tell?”

You stare at him a long moment and then shake your head. “I just do. I can’t explain it. I just know it’s there.” You entwine your fingers through his and look down at them. It’s true. What he feels for you just exists. You see it when you look into his eyes. And when he’s not there, you can close your eyes and still feel it there, filling you with its presence. There’s no way you could ever miss it.

You look up and see him staring at you in wonder, his eyes filled with all the emotions you ran away from for so long. But now you welcome them. Need them, even.

His eyes are wet as he leans over to kiss your lips. “Me too,” he murmurs against your mouth.

Your hands mould around his shoulders, your eyes still on his face. “How?” you ask him. “How can you be sure?” After all the shit you’ve put him through, how could anyone be sure?

He smiles at this as he pushes you on your back and this time you go unresistingly. He lies down next to you and throws a leg over your thigh. “You came here,” he begins. “You left everything and got on that plane and came.” He snorts. “I completely fucked up your schedule, I plucked you out from the middle of your workday, with no explanations, nothing, and you left it all hanging there and came here.” The same look of awe comes on his face. “You’re not the only one who pulls shit, Brian.” He looks into your eyes. “Everything you do, everything you say, or don’t say, all of it tells me, shows me how much you love me.” He kisses the corner of your lips.

And that’s all the reassurance you need.

You pull him down and kiss him properly, with tongue and teeth and lots of spit. He moans and sighs against your mouth and then you hear him sniffle.

“It’s not going to be forever, you know.” You hear him suppress a sigh. “I will eventually come back to Pittsburgh.”

Fucking lunatic, you shake your head. “No, you won’t.”

“Brian!” He frowns but you stop him with a wave of your hand. It’s time to disabuse little Sunshine of his thoroughly inappropriate notions of self-sacrifice.

“No, you won’t.” You repeat, staring into his eyes, your face grim. “New York is going to be amazing for you, and you will not jeopardize that for anyone.” You raise a brow. “You shouldn’t have to,” you tell him. And then you smile. “Not if… I come after you.”

For a few long seconds, he stares at your in astonishment—his mouth dropping open in shock as for a moment or two he seems to forget how to breathe.

And then his whole face lights up and his blue eyes sparkle as the biggest smile you’ve ever seen in your life splits his face in half. “Brian…” he cries as he throws himself on top of you and laughs.

 

********

 

Five days after he left for New York, you wake up from your sleep to the sound of a light Mediterranean rain splattering against the window of your hotel room in Ibiza, and your arms secure around his warm, sated body.

You watch the early morning light fall over the ceiling above you, as you rub the skin of his back soothingly—your fingers connecting with the pores on his skin like a jigsaw puzzle coming together. You listen to his deep, contented breathing, feel his silky hair tickle your nose, and once again agree.

Yes. Life’s good. And all is indeed right with your universe.

 

********

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the comingthengoing challenge in May 2005
> 
> STORY NOTES: My first B/J and QaF attempt. I haven’t been to  
> any of the places mentioned in this story. Google is my best friend.  
> Oh, and [info]darksylvia is an absolute savior. Thank you, Leah, for all your help.


End file.
